Acceleration
by Joon d'Weed
Summary: In a world of Aura and dust, magical things can happen, miracles can be imitated, and technology takes a flying leap. But there's one thing that will always apply no matter what: Physics (Elements from 'A Certain Scientific Railgun', hahahehexd)
1. Conservation of Energy

**The last exam of my high school's over, it's been a long time since I last picked up my keyboard and type. Trying to find the passion again, you know? So, I'm gonna jump from story to story, just toying around and writing whenever I see fit.**

 **Selfish and despicable, I know, but I write for fun, and I can't stop ideas popping up in my mind after a long session of daydreaming. It's just how I role, I apologize in advance.**

 **In any case, if you happen to enjoy it, great!**

 **But, if not…**

…

…

…

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…

…

 **Oh well~**

 **P.S: Pardon my terrible grammar and sentence structure. In fact, pardon my everything, my English has been terribly rusty after not touching it for a while, please bear with me.**

* * *

 _ **Acceleration**_

* * *

A boy walks into a bar in the middle of the night.

"Sup," Jaune Arc says, waving lazily at the bartender at the far side of the room as he approaches.

Junior, Hei Xiong, the hairy man in the cool suit, blinks at the sight of the platinum blonde entering the room, but more importantly, at the aluminum briefcase he carries in one hand.

"Arc? The hell you're doing here?" He inquires as he wipes a drinking glass clean, not bother stopping, "another errand for Torchwick?"

"You know it," Arc shrugs, sliding into an empty seat that was directly in front of the bearded bartender, "goddamn slaver driver, but at least he pays well." he places the briefcase of the bar top with a heavy clang that makes Junior raises his eyebrows.

"That sounded heavy," the man said, putting down his cleaning kit in favor for the briefcase placed on top of the table. Jaune does not stop him from doing so, but instead reaching over the table and grab himself a shitty beer he knew Junior would have stashed under when he goes through a shitty day.

"You know," Junior begins, lifting the hefty case and taking note of its weight, "till this day, I still have no idea where you bunch manage to get so much money. But at the very least, I know stealing alone can't earn you this much."

Jaune shrugs.

"Eh, I guess we're pretty resourceful," the kid says, face bland as cardboard as he takes a swig from the bottle, "We are… very well sponsored."

For some reason, that pyromaniac bitch, she sure has a lot of money stored up, more than enough to imbalance the entire economic system of Remnant if she decides to.

But well, money is money, well-earned or stole. Don't ever wonder where it's from, for the answer to those types of questions are usually better left unknown.

"Sponsored, huh?" Junior returns the case back to where it was, leaning against the countertop and comments curiously, "don't know that a thief like Torchwick has a sponsor."

Jaune does not say anything, but instead resolve to smile disarmingly at Junior. It instead only serves to creep the man out as he maintains the expression without moving a single facial muscle.

Reluctantly, the information broker Junior sighs and backs off, just as Jaune intends.

"Alright, you've made your point. Let's just get down to business before trouble finds us."

Jaune agrees. He retrieves a key from his pocket and tosses the thin piece of metal, which Junior catches with ease.

As the info broker opens the briefcase with said key and checks the money with proficient and practiced movements, Jaune eyes the club for anything suspicious—or more specifically, for plainclothes cops and huntsman.

At last, Junior finishes counting and closes the case with a quiet snap. "Alright, all good as usual."

Jaune scoffs. "Of course, regardless of how Roman often behaves, he takes businesses very seriously."

"I don't doubt it, the man doesn't mess around when it comes to money." Junior nods and puts his weight on the table, leaning over and lowers his voice, "so, what is it that you want to know?"

Jaune is quiet for a moment, pale sapphire eyes distant and glazed like orbs of glacial ice.

"A list of names of Beacon's first years, together with their transcripts," the Arc replies finally, pausing and pondering for a second, "and a bit info on their semblance, if there's any."

At that, Junior frowns incredulously. "Why do you want that kind of information for?"

Jaune shrugs.

"Don't know. Don't care. Just doing my job."

* * *

 **Acceleration**

* * *

"So… I can't help but overhear a bit of your conversation. Torchwick huh? One good and honest lad he is."

The Arc twitches, but remains mostly still as he hears a man slurs from his behind him.

Junior has headed inside to grab the information he needs, leaving the bar empty save for Jaune.

Or so he thought.

Damn huntsman and their hypersensitive hearing.

"You'd probably heard wrong, then," Jaune puts down his bottle of beer and spins in his seat to face the man.

Grizzled face, unkempt black hair and murky crimson eyes, and an eye-catching red cape over his shoulders. Also, judging from the slur in his words and the smell… most definitely drunk.

But that doesn't make the man any less of a threat.

"See, that's what I thought at first too," The man exclaims loudly, sliding into an empty seat beside him with unhindered grace.

Jaune leans away and inches towards the edge of his seat, anything to be away from the man's heavily intoxicated breath.

"But then I heard something interesting… something about Beacon first year entries!"

Jaune twitches again, face carefully blank of expression.

"And that's something I can't ignore, kid," the man says, the playful attitude fading. In turn, his features turn razor-sharp and deadly serious, as though there's never alcohol in his systems in the first place.

Jaune remains generally unmoving, resorting to giving the man the silent treatment as he spins in his seat again and looks away from the man in favor to study the condensed droplets of water on the bottle which he has been drinking.

He ignores the man blatantly.

It's a very rude gesture, any mother would've thrown a fit if she sees their son behave in such unbecoming way.

But as far as he remembers, he doesn't have a mother, so no shit is given.

"Oi kid, don't ignore me. I ain't messin' around here."

The man put emphasis on his point by poking the sharp end of his sword against his ribcage, somehow unraveling the weapon without any of the henchmen around noticing.

Jaune ignores him again, picking up the half-finished bottle and takes another long swig from it.

Empty threats. Bounded by Vale's laws and the Huntsman Protocol. It's not like he'd actually hurt him with it anyway.

"Aren't you too young to drink?" The man changes the topic, seeing how Jaune isn't going to talk anytime soon. The tip of the weapon is still lightly pressed against his side.

"Aren't you too drunk to properly use your brain?" Jaune retorts, suddenly acknowledging the man's presence again by shooting him a side-glance. "Apparently so, huntsman, if you figure it'll be fine to threaten a citizen at sword's point without giving any sound prove that he's done anything remotely wrong."

The man scowls, displeased.

"What I've heard is enough of a proof, kid, so listen here closely—"

Jaune tunes him out.

Junior cannot choose a better time to reappear. He emerges out the shadows cast by the door, holding a conspicuously thick file in one hand. He closes the door behind him and locks it before turning around.

Almost comically, Hei Xiong freezes at the sight of the Jaune and the man, and his big-ass sword that is almost as wide as the bar table itself.

Like a growling bear, Junior the bat wielder fumes, hands clenching into fists at his sides. The man with the weapon stills and shifts uncomfortably as Junior takes three deliberate deep breaths to calm himself.

"Okay, maybe you haven't seen the sign outside, _huntsman..._ " Junior seethes, his thick arms crossed and an intimidating glare is directed head-on to the man he is addressing.

For all the bravado he has displayed earlier, the huntsman flinches.

Jaune turns away sniggers quietly.

 _Don't ever mess with the bartender._

Taking pleasant notice of the unnamed man's reaction, Junior carries on.

"But I've put up a new ground rule since last time a huntress came and wrecked my club…"

"And that," Hei Xiong points at the sword the drunk holds, "is clearly a weapon. Anything sharp or pointy or remotely capable of collateral damage is _not_ allowed inside the club, huntsman or cops be damned."

Silently, all henchmen in duty come and gather a loose circle around the bar.

"So, whether you like it or not, you either leave your weapon at the rack outside, or you stay out of my club."

There is a moment of tense silence, but only for the henchmen.

They are nervous. Last time they face someone with huntsman training, they got their ass thoroughly kicked, and it had been a little girl.

Granted, she can punch a fully-grown man through a wall, fight their two best fighters and boss at once and win, _light herself on fire_. But still a girl in her teens.

Now, at the sight of a man with distinct crimson eyes, a sword long as they are tall, they certainly don't like their chances.

However, lucky for them, the huntsman hesitates.

Perhaps he realizes that offending with the club owner is a big no-no, or perhaps he decides that it isn't worth the trouble, or maybe his sense of justice as a huntsman catches up with him, he disgruntledly collapses the sword and swings it around his back and into its sheath, all in one smooth movement.

"…Tch, I'll see myself out."

The huntsman stands and strolls towards the door, but not before sending one last glare at the drinking Arc.

Jaune ignores the man as though he's never here, and returns back drinking.

As the doors swing close, Hei Xiong and his legion of henchman let out a collective sigh of relief. Junior gestures and returns his men to their respective stations, while he himself goes back behind the bar and leans slack against the table, dragging a palm down his weary face.

"Thank goodness, _finally_ there's a sign of common sense in a huntsman. That weapon he had there? Not sure if that's him trying to compensate for something he's lacking or what, but there's definitely no way my boys can handle something like that." He rubs his forehead. "Jesus, I'm not ready to have my club trashed twice, not when I had it barely fixed and reopened last week."

Junior vents, and Jaune choose not to reply.

Instead, he chooses to sip the last trickle from his bottle and places it on the table. As the sound of empty glass meeting hardened wood snatches Junior's attention, Jaune catches the man's eyes with his own and stares at him expectantly.

At the blonde's unamused look, the bartender grunts.

"You seriously need to get that fucking stick out your ass."

"It's a twelve-feet long pole, get it right."

Fondly exasperated, Hei Xiong sighs and passes the file to Jaune by pushing it subtly across the table, which the blonde picks up.

The file is very heavy, a fact he realizes when he holds it up.

"Here's what you need, first-year entries and their transcripts. Some kids still don't have their semblance manifested, and some hide it well or never uses it, but aside from them, we pretty much have all the other students covered."

Jaune nods and opens the file, flicking through a couple pages and notes the detailed entries and descriptions.

"Pyrrha Nikos… Sky Lark… Jupiter Runners… Russel Thrush… Nicholas Hearth… Yang Xiao-Long..."

Not so subtly, Junior scowls and rubs his nether regions.

Jaune skims through the file quickly, going through three pages at a time. The list goes on and on, at least a couple hundred pages and a couple hundred words each.

He ain't gonna read it all, that'll require some serious brain cells. He'll leave the job to someone else, probably Roman.

The blonde closes the file and stands, unsurprised that his head is still clear after the small amount of liquor he'd consumed. Without wobbling on his feet or feeling sluggish, he nods at Junior and accepts the elder man's extended hand in a firm clasp.

They shake hands for the twenty-fifth time.

"Pleased doing business with you."

With that said, Jaune turns on his heels. He pushes through the dancing crowd and walks out the open door.

* * *

 **Acceleration**

* * *

A boy walks out of the bar in the middle of the night—

—and gets slugged in the face by a brutal right hook.

A thunderous smack resounds, loud enough to wake a few sleeping neighbors nearby.

Subsequently, a body is immediately sent flying at extremely high speed.

It crashes through the side of a building and through its exterior wall—not Junior's club, thankfully, or else his entire business would be in ruins—and skips once across the floor, and hits the other wall further inside, hard enough to crack spiderwebs in the concrete and denting it.

Dust kicks up at the impact and rubbles are sending tumbling down as the construction shudders, the noises of the commotion no doubt has wakened all the sleeping neighborhood in the district.

As the cloud settles and sound stopping echoing in the alley, the embedded and bruised form of Qrow Branwen slides down from the side of the wall and falls to the ground in a boneless heap, consciousness robbed and right arm shattered in three places.

His eyes remain wide in pain and surprise, long after he lost the ability to function.

A couple hundred meters away, file tugged safely under an arm, Jaune Arc stands stares at the trench on the ground he had dug out with the huntsman's body, and the carnage it leaves behind when it hits the building across the street.

Jaune snorts in a derisive manner.

"To be fair, that's all justifiable self-defense."

Wiping his fingers on the smooth and unblemished skin of his cheek to brush away imaginary dust, the pale Arc shrugs and turns away from the damaged site, leaving the damaged body behind half buried under a small pile of rubbles and dirt.

As the approaching police sirens wail streets away, Jaune whistles a steady tune and treads merrily away, long gone even before the cops arrive.

* * *

 **Acceleration**


	2. Convection

**Just to say, this work is written for fun. I just click open a new and start tapping readily on my keyboard without any clear goals in my mind, this is a story that starts because of this one strong impulse that has been bothering me forp quite a while now. Mainly because this is a work for fun, I don't plan to put too much effort into grammar. The plot isn't set in stone as well, all written with just how my brain process as I continue, and therefore much of it might not even make sense.**

 **To be honest, I think this will be a sloppy piece of work, if not a crappy one. But well, if you do enjoy it, then I'll be more than happy.**

* * *

 **Acceleration**

* * *

"… _What?"_

" _Yep, new job I need you to do here. There's a new gang in town, bunch of brainless kids who think they are tough enough to mess with my city. The convenient shop we saw robbed that other day? Most likely their doing."_

" _I see. What do I need to do?"_

" _Crude as always, eh? To be honest, it's fine for them to stay around long as they behave. Just go and teach them the ground rules, the usual. Just be sure they know whose turf they're playing rope skipping on."_

 _Hmm…what a weird metaphor._

"… _And if they don't comply?"_

" _Good question, if they don't comply…"_

 _There is a pause. A sharp bark of laughter._

" _Well, if that's the case, then it can't be helped! They'll just have to learn firsthand the harsh reality of criminal life!"_

"… _Is that so."_

" _It's for their own good in a way, kid, I think you understand this better than anyone else, people who bite off more than they chew usually are the first ones to die a horrible death. That's just how life works. This ain't no fantasy story where all people get along together and live happily ever after. This is the reality."_

" _Truly, I want to believe that they'll be smart and just follow my rules. You know what they say, the more the merrier! But it's not my fault most people tend to fail my expectations. If that's the case, unfortunate for them, then. You know what to do."_

 _A moment of silence._

 _Reluctant acceptance._

" _I understand."_

* * *

 **Acceleration**

* * *

Aura is such a strange thing. So strange and fickle, that there are many theories based on that stuff.

The manifestation of a soul. The magical power bestowed by gods of old. The inner potential that every people is born with that can leads to a revolutionary mankind evolution.

Along with Aura comes dust. With the new crystal-like ore, technology and weaponry take a long stride of advancement. People in the past adapted, developing safer and easier ways of dealing with Grimms through the combined effort of scientists and researcher.

Empowered ammo is invented. Manipulation of natural elements is recreated. Electricity and power generation. Nonrecyclable fuel for new types of transportations and machinery.

Thing is, Aura and dust make life easier with only little drawbacks. People naturally dive deeper into the subject and try getting something better out of it, like side-benefits that can improve their quality of life and boost their economy, or just to fulfill their curiosity and self-interest.

All for their selfish and selfless reasons, for the good of their society and their own.

But for one Jaune Arc? He doesn't do that.

He doesn't care what Aura is, nor what importance it implies as the tangible representation of one's soul. He does not question where it is from, or how he has it.

There's no intimation of it to him. He just accepts what that is his. Aura is just something he happens to acquire somewhere along the way of life, a convenient tool he happens to stumble across.

Yes, there's no better word for it: a tool, a form of power he wields. His Aura and semblance are tools of his life, just as how his legs are for transportations and his arms are for balance and grabbing items.

Aura is his to command, semblance is his to utilize. They are his powers, as they belong to him and him alone. They are a part of his body, instruments that have and will carry him through obstacles and shitty hardships.

And that's all he needs to know.

Quiet footsteps echoes as soles of plain sneakers slap against the damp floor of an alleyway.

Cool blue eyes dart up to an unremarkable sign hung atop of a random alley back door, and he stops.

"This is the place," Jaune Arc mutters to the two grunts following behind him, startling them to a stop short of crashing into him.

Wherever the new gang is staying, it is no better than a shithole. He wants not one second more that needed dwelling in there.

Jaune walks up to the door, leaving two of the White Fang members behind as he vibrates the air molecules surrounding his body, transferring pulses of kinetic energy out his body and heats up the air a feet radius in a tight column.

Convection, simple physics. Hot air goes up, cold air goes down. Factors like different air mass, air pressure and density being put into account, and here you have it, convection.

Simply put, it's like a ventilation system, sucking in air from one place to another, except it's a natural phenomenon that's recreated from Jaune's Semblance.

In addition, he tinkers a bit with his calculations, so that most of the air drawn towards his location is mostly air leaking from the door slits, bringing whatever smell lingering in the room out in the opening and towards Jaune.

After all, it's better to enter knowing what to expect than heading in blindly.

He filters away bits of dust with his Aura Field as he takes a sniff from the air behind the door.

"I'm gonna puke."

There's a lot he can smell through the door, in fact, most of them smell like shit. though only a few he can identify from the dense mixture; drugs, tobacco, rotten food, expired drinks, sex…

"Shit, I hope they aren't rutting like fucking rabbits in heat or something…"

Really, he does. Dealing with awkward situations are never his strongest fort, despite his ability in incredibly complex calculations and all that shit.

Sighing a breath of resignation, Jaune turns to address the two Faunus fanatics, "I'm going in, don't enter unless I tell you otherwise."

The two nods, expressions undiscernible as their face hidden under their respective stylized masks. Jaune looks away from them and towards the door.

His face hardening as he leans forward and places the underneath of his foot against the worn door of the new gang's hideout.

He takes a breath and alters the magnitude of the force applied to the steel door by his foot.

 _BANG!_

Through nothing but Aura manipulation, Jaune blasts the door right out of its hinges, the thick sheet of metal crumbling inwards from the force he exerted on it.

The Arc enters the dark room with slow footsteps, ignoring the startled cries of its occupants as he makes his rather dramatic appearance.

Honestly, he doesn't really care about theatrics. Unlike Roman, who finds it entertaining and a satisfiable way of boosting ego, Jaune only finds those kinds of act extremely tiring.

But theatrics have their merits, intimidating people into listening is one of them.

The light in this room is severely lacking, he notices rather suddenly, he can barely see the outline shapes of the occupants in the room.

Consequently, he manipulates the natural sunlight that is shone upon his back from the entrance who's without a door, altering the vectors of photon motion and redirects the wave-particles thoroughly spread out in every direction of the room.

The darkness flees and the room brightens, and Jaune is able to see every gang member present in the confines.

"Okay, new gang! Torchwick's missionary here," he calls out, sounding uninterested, "now that we're able to see each other, let's just make something clear here. You lot are playing on his grounds, so you ought to abide some…"

He trails off midsentence, cold blue eyes that had been roaming around the room to capture the face of every gang members is now locked on a sole location.

Motionless like a statue, he absorbs the information presented in front of him.

Not accounting for the give thugs sitting on the crates doing drugs, there are two thugs on the floor, surrounded by a loose ring of shredded clothing.

Held between them, lies a figure…naked.

Bruised and bleeding, the figure pressed to the floor is, in fact, a faunus woman. Sobbing and wailing, she struggles, her arms lashes as they are held above her head by one of the two men, her torso twists and jerks as the remaining one lies atop of her…

 **Thrusting**.

"What the fuck do you want, punk?" The one restraining the woman grunts, "can't you see we're fucking busy?"

Something snaps inside his body.

Jaune's vision tints red.

* * *

 **Acceleration**

* * *

Jaune Arc has come to accept criminal life.

Two years on the streets does that to you. He has seen acts of violence on the streets, filled with selfish desires and unending greed. People who are overzealous and too caught up in their sins are bound to do stuff that's well over the line.

Human nature, people, is a very ugly thing.

That's why there's a wide range of misdeed he thinks is alright.

Beating, he accepts if it's for a good reason.

Thieving, he allows it since it is but a common occurrence that happens in millions over Remnant, and the harm usually isn't that much to the sufferer.

Robbing? Same as thieving, if only in a bigger scale.

Drug dealing? If the ones in it know what they're dealing with, then it's their own problem.

Even _killing_ , he's fine with it. As long as the victim deserves it and the one doing the killing isn't drowned in their bloodlust or outright mad, he understands the necessity of eliminating vermin and pests that are poisoning the world.

After being swarmed by crimes and misdoings for so long, it's understandable that his view on the world is a little jagged, and that he would condone misdemeanors as long as they're not too far.

However… _raping_ is not one of them.

* * *

 **Acceleration**

* * *

For a moment, silence reign as he becomes the center of all attention.

Aura pulses strongly in dim light, field intensifying on his skin so much that it hurts to watch.

The two men stop whatever they're doing, head shooting up at the sudden appearance of a blazing sun in the room.

A step forward, and the cement shatter under his feet. The earth gives way to his rage.

"… _You are, all of you, scums._ "

Glacial ice burns with promised murder, and the ground itself shudders.

" _This was supposed to be a relatively peaceful talk…a little chat where nobody gets hurt as long as everyone here behave like little, good boys._ "

Wisps of wind pick up, faint outlines of a miniature tornado swirling into existence.

Two startled lowlifes scramble backward and leave the naked woman alone, pressing their back to the walls as they hyperventilate in undisguised fear.

" _And you all just have to go ahead and do the inexcusable._ "

He drinks upon their despair like finest wine.

Unfortunate for them, his wrath does not quell under its delectable taste.

Instead, it intensifies as he watches them cower in dread, and the defiled woman unmoving on the ground.

" **It's people like you that I take pleasure** ** _slaughtering_** "

The woman watches with wide eyes from her position as he approaches and steps past her lying form, dropping his heavy jacket on her body on the way.

A frantic gunshot rings out, the round hits him in the chest, deflecting off impact and nails the ceiling.

Two more follow, slamming into his abdomen and thigh respectively.

This time, he is prepared for it. He does his calculations.

Two bullets' motion reverse. They reflect, burying themselves in the gunner's body. Both nonfatal spots, but places where sensory nerves are the densest. The sinner screams in pain.

All the while, he stands, unaffected.

"Mo-Monster!"

The blonde freezes, before inclining his head in the voice's direction.

The rapist flinches, urine leaks out from his uncovered bottom-half at the sight of the glowing eyes of a vengeful god.

Pathetic.

" _Monster?_ "

The direction of his stalk changes. He heads towards the unshaven parasite.

Staring right into the man's eyes, he questions in a soft whisper.

" _What are you, then?"_

Rationality gone, all that is left is a devastating storm, the bringer of destruction.

" _What are you? You who defiles children? Who murders innocents? Who rapes the defenseless?"_

And when the storm comes and goes, all that will be left in its wake will be ruinous carnage.

A stray bullet fired from the terrified man, somehow miraculously hitting him in the forehead.

It did _jackshit_.

He stops short of the rapist, leans close to his face with undying fury in his eyes.

" **What are you then, Monster?!** "

The man makes a strangled whimper from his throat, eyes bloodshot and mouth frothing from the waves of anger rolling off the blonde.

His arms move, fumbles with the gun with unsteady fingers as he takes aim, point blank.

Before he can shoot, a hand darts out and holds the barrel in a tight grip, and _warps_ the metal until it is barely recognizable.

The face is immensely close. The glower on it speaks volume of its owner's anger.

" **If being a Monster's Monster means innocents can sleep in peace, then I shall gladly oblige.** "

The _Monster_ snarls.

In the most fearful moment in his life, the rapist opens fire regardless of its twisted state.

The gun explodes in a shower of heat, sending gunpowder and sharpens flying all over the place. The sinner shouts in agony as a dozen embed themselves into his arm and hand.

A few impact the Monster, but none hurt him, leaving him in a pristine condition.

He releases his grip on the heated metal, letting it drop to the floor with a clatter.

The noise is unbearably loud in this stifling silence.

The Monster bares his teeth, eyes glowing in equal portions of power and rage.

He places his palm atop of the trembling rapist's greasy head.

" **None of you will be leaving this place alive.** "

Just outside, the two White Fang turns away from the door, pulling their masks away and resisting the urge to throw up as the room turns into a slaughterhouse.

* * *

 **Acceleration**

* * *

"Ugh…I'm gonna be sick."

The cop shares the same thought with his colleague. No matter how many times he has seen a crime scene, none can compare to what he is seeing right now.

He stares down at his blood-covered shoes, face a bit green as he realizes that dark crimson has covered every inch of the floor without not a dot's space being spared.

Gore lies on the ground, stuck to the wall. Broken limps hang from the ceiling lights above, dripping blood like droplets of rain.

A man lies against the wall, dead eyes wide and unblinking. On the right side of his chest is a gouged hole, what's supposed to be lying inside appears to be missing.

Beside the body, a perfectly undamaged organ sits on the floor, thick artery gushing out red liquid as the organ pulses and jumps.

"What kind of sick fuck digs out a heart with their bare hands?" His partner mutters, returning in the room after emptying his stomach outside in the alley. His face is ashen pale at the sight of the body.

The cop opens his mouth to reply, only to be cut off by another voice.

"You'll get used to it," their superior says as he finishes inspecting a halved corpse in the other corner of the room, "seeing how Vale's crime rate continues to increase without falling, I doubt this would be the last time we're seeing it."

"Oh boy. Sir, you actually think this will happen again?" The young cop asks, feeling sick in his stomach.

"It did _happen_ , three times already this year if counting this one. And unless criminals stop their fucking _raping_ , this ain't gonna stop anytime soon," their superior, a weary old man, sighs gruffly, standing up and approaches his squad, "the motive of the suspect is rather obvious, as this sort of scenes happen every time a woman was attempted raping or faunus trafficking is exposed… but mostly it's raping, since faunus trafficking is nigh nonexistent in Vale nowadays. You know, with White Fang being in action and everything."

"…The suspect hates rapists?" There's always one cop in every squad that has to be a dumb one.

Sorry, no offense.

"Not sure if _hate_ is strong enough a word to put it, but yes. _Excellent_ deduction, Robbert," he can smell sarcasm a mile away.

"Wait," the cop suddenly interjects timidly, "so you mean it's the same guy who's doing this every time?"

"Yes," their superior nods, "or maybe it's two guys if they share the same level of hatred towards ravishment and decides acts together. Though not impossible, that's very unlikely. The pattern of these points to justify it, there's only one suspect."

He feels confused. "Why's that?"

The head officer inclines his head to the area around them. "When we enter this room, how many sets of footsteps did you notice?"

The cops pause and begin pondering. After a while, he blinks when he realizes the answer to the question.

"There's…none."

The old man gives an affirmative nod. "Exactly, whoever did this leaves no footprints or fingerprints whatsoever even if the place is drenched in blood. There's no evidence and clues they leave behind. Technology is not at the stage where it can erase evidence without leaving traces of dust behind. So, that can only mean one thing: Semblance."

"You mean is that the people who did this use their Semblance to erase evidence of their crime?" His partner asks.

"No, that kind of ability would be too impracticable. It's more of a Semblance that prevents users from leaving their marks on the surroundings," the old man explains, "and even then, those types of Semblance are extremely rare, and it'd be near impossible for two people to share that same Semblance. Hence, the suspect is only one person."

The explanation makes sense, it is a logical conclusion. But the cop can't help but ask again.

"But, are we sure that it's really just one person—" He gestures the room around, "—that did all this?"

He is referring to the gouges on the walls, the craters on the floor, the crack lines on the ceiling…

...and the entire collapsed section of half the other side of the room.

The damage is significant. And should one think logically, if the suspect's Semblance is as his superior describe, then all this damage should be caused by sheer Aura manipulation, weapons and physical attributes of that person alone.

Heads spin to the head officer, who only sighs at the undivided attention that is demanding his answer. "It's hard to accept, but that's what the higherups and investigators believe. Whoever's the person causing all this mess is one heck of a tough bastard, criminal or not."

"Do we know who he is?" The female officer questions, having listened to the conversation after escorting the violated woman to the police station.

"Heck no, else we'd already had huntsman out the streets to capture the bastard and detain him in a cell. But because of how all security cameras are destroyed before every crime scene, we never knew their gender, let alone their face. For the lack of a verified identity on the suspect, the higherups have decided to give this dangerous person an alias."

"We call him Accelerator."

A moment of silence.

"Wait, umm… but why the name?"

"How should I know? It's the council who came up with it, not me."

* * *

 **Acceleration**

* * *

 **Sorry~ I know it's bad, the whole story's bad. The entire flow of the story is quite terrible that I almost wanted to cry, but I'm a bit too lazy and tired to edit the chapter any further than I already have.**

 **And about how the council decides to give Jaune the name 'Accelerator'. Truthfully, I can't really think of a reasonable explanation for that, but because I** ** _really_** **want to relate Jaune to the albino Accelerator in To Aru series, I just go ahead and throw the alias out, even if it may make a glaring loophole.**

 **PLZ FORGIVE ME~**


	3. Change of Momentum

**I was busy with exams and graduation. Other than that, I have no real excuse.**

 **Eh…Sorry….**

* * *

 _ **Acceleration**_

* * *

He stirs from his sleep as golden light seeps through the transparent surface of glass windows and illuminates his visage.

His eyebrows twitch momentarily from the intrusion, but quickly cease as the comfortable warmth of the sunlight lure him back into the soft embrace of his slumber.

Groaning softly, he turns in his bed, lying on his back and settles his head into the comfy valley of his pillow.

He proceeds to breathe deeply.

Once

Twice.

Midway through his third inhalation, his breath hitch suddenly.

 _Wait a second..._

Tiredness flushes from his mind as quick as air to vacuum, and he abruptly remembers that the cheap inn he has been living in for the last few days does not have beds this cozy _nor_ bedsheets this clean.

The fact that his pillow does not smell like literal shit is a dead giveaway.

 _Shit._

He remains unmoving on his spot, not even daring to move his pinkie in an inconspicuous way, but instead opts to stay as still as tense muscles allow him.

In the frame of a few short seconds, he shoves everything distracting thoughts behind the steel façade of professionalism and gathers his entire attention and focus.

Shoulders hunched, he tensed like a predating cobra under covers of the bedsheets, preparing for any situation that awaits him on the other side of his eyelids.

Eventually, when anxiousness proves to be too much, crimson eyes soundlessly open.

 _Hmm._

That's... a very familiar ceiling.

And that black burnt spot on that tile... where had he seen it before?

There is a moment of bated stillness as he blinks at the stark white surface, inner thoughts rapidly churning as he tries to connect the dots.

The pause expires as his brain clicks in recognition. Sweet relief floods his being as the intense flames in his eyes fade and return to their bleary state.

"…This place looks somewhat disgustingly familiar."

Indeed, it does. He should've noticed the familiarity earlier.

White tiles, white ceilings, white bedsheets, ticking medical equipment, the scent of cleaning agents and chloroform. Too much morbid whiteness contained in one place, too sterile for one to truly relax in.

It is hard not to recognize this place, not when he had been here so many times as a youth.

Sheets rustle as Qrow Branwen sits up. The bed shifts and creaks as he readjusts to lie his back against the bed frame, a position he finds significantly more agreeable, but he does not account for the piercing pain that ignited in his head due to the shift of his head.

"Aw shit." He curses and squeezes his eyes shut, leaning the side of his head against the cool metal frame of the bed. "Ow ow ow."

Damn, a hungover this bad? Jesus, he doesn't think he's had one this bad since like...ever.

The only time he thinks is marginally as painful is the night his team celebrated when they graduated from Beacon, but even then it wasn't as bad.

For all the years he has spent traveling, he's had countless terrible mornings hungover, but this takes the cake.

Normally, they shouldn't hurt this much, merely a dull throbbing knock that only poses as a small annoyance. Irritating, but tolerable.

But this... it's unbearable, like being repeatedly smashed in the head by a sledgehammer. A sharper, merciless type of pain. The urge to spew guts is larger than ever.

It's flat-out torture.

"If there's a God, kill me."

It hurts, a lot. Man, it hurts. A hell lot more than any hangover could, he'd know. Whereas a headache from a usual hangover can kill moods, this can literally _murder_ brain cells.

Qrow groans and raises his right hand to nurse his forehead, but rather than to find his appendage obeying his command, it doesn't.

He frowns. He shakes it. The entire arm is tightly bounded, hardly budging from the spot when he tries to move it.

Annoyed and bothered, Qrow has half the mind to wrench it from its confine.

"What. The. Hell?" Needless to say, his splitting headache does not help with his mood.

 _This is already shaping out to be a shitty day..._

Frustrated, the Branwen looks down to said arm in a cast and wrapped tightly around his chest.

 _And of course, his semblance guarantees that it would get even shittier._

He stares owlishly at the sight.

"What... the actual fuck?"

Nope. Nothing. It's empty. He can't remember a damn thing for his life.

Oum, since when did he have his arm broken and it cast? And why on Remnant can't he remember a single bit of it?

What's with this situation?

But then, a thought struck his mind with the force of a thunderbolt.

"Hang on." Qrow shuts his eyes, pressing a palm to his forehead, mortified.

Did he perhaps... got into a bar fight?

...No, there's just got to be no way.

Sure, he might be very, _very_ drunk last night if judging from the splitting pain in his head, but surely he can't be that intoxicated to start some dick measuring contest with civilians and drunkards. He just ain't that immature.

...Right?

"Crap...Where's Ozpin when you need him?"

For the next minute, he tries his absolute best in recalling the missing blanks with a look of extreme constipation on his face, but soon enough, he relents without much a fight.

Trying to recall his memories that refuse to surface is just like digging up a mountain of garbage. Sincr everything is just useless trash, there's no point tormenting his groaning brain any further by overworking it this early in the morning.

They'll come around when the time comes. There's no good rushing amnesia.

"What's the time anyway?" He looks around for a clock, and he finds one hanging on the wall by the door.

It reads 2:30. That means Ozpin is still half-buried in paperwork and headmaster duties in his office. It will be another hour until the man can free himself from the pile and spare some time to visit him.

An hour at least. That's 3600 seconds. That's less than half the time he spent teaching classes in Signal.

Three thousand six hundred seconds. Alright, he can wait that long...he thinks.

Not even five minutes later, he sits in his bed with the look of a dying man on his face.

Only three hundred seconds passed, and already he's bored out of his mind. He finds that time runs slower when there's nothing to do.

He had naively hoped that fidgeting with the material of his cast will help. But it did not, and he is still very bored. There's no curing this severe case of ADHD, not even the games he downloaded in his scroll can help much.

"Would it kill Ozpin to install a television?" Qrow whines.

Seeing that there's nothing any better to do, he gazes out the window, searching forlornly for anything on Beacon's courtyard that may intrigue him.

Hey, maybe if he's lucky, he'd spot some scantily-clad eye candy that shows way too much skin than they should be allowed to or some fourth-year with killer bodies he knows he'll kill to have a thorough grope.

He gazes out the window with the eyes of a hawk. Eager and excited, acting every part like the horndog he is.

Five minutes passed.

...Maybe, just maybe.

Ten minutes passed.

...Please? Anything for poor, bored Qrow? Getting a bit desperate here.

At the fifteen minutes mark, Qrow sighs heavily.

He gives up.

Yep, no thanks to his shitty semblance, aside from decently dressed Beacon students translocating from one lesson to another, mutely chatting. All in all, nothing's worthy quipping his interest, one way or another.

Muttering something about stuck-up Glynda Goodwitch and stupid mandatory dress code under his breath, Qrow turns back into the room with dull eyes. "C'mon, at least give me my flask."

Getting drunk can help alleviate his boredom, if only slightly.

He looks around and eyes for anything that looks metal and shapes like a square, but nope, he sees nothing that remotely fits the description.

Snorting, Qrow leans back against the bed. He doesn't know why he expects so much. "Figures."

Of course, out of all the things he carries on himself, classified files and confidential notes and all that sorts of invaluable stuff, the nurses see fit to confiscate his hip flask instead.

How logic makes sense in their head eludes Qrow.

He rubs his face with his free hand as Qrow once again settles his head back onto the pillow. He closes his eyes and tries his best to ignore the storm of pain and nausea brewing in his head.

The Branwen disregards the resounding pounding of his heartbeat that echoes in his temples as he quietly ponders about unanswered questions.

Important questions that demands answers.

Like... what is today's date?

Is Ruby's birthday's next month or next week?

Does Tai's still remember to feed Zwei regularly back at home?

How long has he not bathed?

...What's his scroll password again?

He let his thoughts drift aimlessly, anything to get his mind off the combined assault of his headache and boredom.

And for a moment, it worked. He is constantly zoning in and out from reality, and time flies while he is in the middle of the aforementioned process.

And then, eventually, a powerful third party comes and join the party.

"Ha…Haaaaaaaa~"

Without any warning, Qrow yawns massively, his jaw stretches and widens until it produces a satisfyingly pop.

In the end, drowsiness always triumphs boredom and headaches.

If there's nothing else to do, he may as well take another nap, maybe the next time he wakes Ozpin will be around to humor him with his usual antics. He might even get his nieces to visit.

His eyelids grow heavy, but he barely notices it himself. His head falls to his chest, breathing comes out deep and slow as rhythmic beeps sound from the linked heart monitor.

As sleep begins to take over, the ache that has been nonstop hammering his head is reduced to an insignificant numbness. Thank Monty for little mercies.

"Well, guess everything'll 'ave to wait 'till Oz comes over ta visit…"

With a final yawn, thoughts flee his mind. And before he knows it, Qrow is once again deep asleep, snoring with enough loudness to wake up slumbering elephants.

* * *

 _ **Acceleration**_

* * *

Ruby Rose does not know her uncle is just a couple hundred feet away from her location.

In fact, she remains unaware of her uncle being up in one of Beacon's many towers, passed out from exhaustion and aggravating nearby staffs with his obnoxious snores.

Instead, she is down on ground level, in the middle of her last period, a combat lesson held by one Professor Glynda Goodwitch that will take over the rest of the Tuesday school day.

Though, even if Ruby knows her uncle Qrow is at the infirmary at the present, she probably wouldn't care much, since she's got her hands rather full right now.

She is watching a battle with her other two teammates, a spar between two extraordinary individuals who claim two top spots in their combat class.

Two combatants are a whirlwind of movement, graceful slides and beautiful footwork. No one wants to remove their eyes away from the arena down below, not when it's getting even more heated with every passing second.

Yang Xiao-Long versus Lie Ren, the second-ranked against fourth-ranked of their grade, one of the rarer matchups right now.

Ruby's sister is no doubt one of the strongest freshmen in Beacon Academy. Apart from Pyrrha, the four-time Mistral Champion who's so crazy strong that it is a wonder how she hasn't skipped a grade yet, she's positive no one in their year can defeat Yang in close combat.

Agile enough to complete a 100-meter run in under six seconds, strong enough to put people through a wall or two with a single hook, and although Yang may be lacking in some department, Ruby never really doubts her sister's prowess. Especially when she's given enough reason to get angry, Ruby don't think any first-years can hold a candle to the ferocious brawler when she's semblance is active and going.

It's like an unspoken rule for their year. If you happen to see Yang Xiao-Long walking down the other way with her eyes red and hair glowing, you turn tail and walk the other direction and pray that she won't find you inconspicuous.

Because if you don't, then you're probably in for a hard time.

"Hah!" Her sister's whoops are drowned by the thunderous clang of gauntlets against pistols, sending those students watching in the front row reeling from the harsh scraping sound of alloyed steel and its deafening shockwave.

Ruby barely flinches. Her eyes are molten silver as she continues to watch the ongoing battle.

Yang may not look like it, but she's a hard worker.

Back their home in Patch, Ruby had seen her sister train, fists pounding away at a wooden log for hours on end, bleeding knuckles cracking against hardened wood and smearing rough bark with crimson long after her aura expires.

With immense speed that Ruby's eyes can only see blurring fists, with a formidable strength that makes soil shudder with every blow she lands on the log, Yang Xiao-Long's training routine is nothing short of brutal.

Ruby usually doesn't have the patience to watch the whole process, because there seems no end to her sister's training regime. every time she smashes a log of hardwood to splinters and bits, she replaces it with another one; and whenever she runs out of wood, she heads into the forest with an axe over her shoulder to resupply the dwindling stock.

Nothing comes without cost, that's one of the first things their father taught them. Ruby knows it, Yang can recite it backward in less than a second.

 _No pain, no gain._ Yang told her once when Ruby was bandaging her busted hands after six-hours of breaking her knuckles on the wooden log, and it stays in her head ever since.

Through countless hours of borderline self-tormenting training, sacrificing lake-fulls of blood and sweat, Yang achieves the level she is currently on.

Blood-related or not, Yang's her sister, and Ruby knows her the best. When she says Yang's strong, then she _is._ When she states that Yang's headstrong, then that's without a doubt the immutable truth.

"Oomph!" Grunts the Yang's opponent when the blonde's fist snakes around pistols and finds itself buried in his stomach. He stumbles back as Yang leaps to follow.

On the contrary, the receiving end of Yang's wrath though… Ruby can't really figure Ren out.

Well okay, that's not entirely true. There are a quite a few things she knows about him from the times they've talked.

She can even make a list of it!

For starters, Ren's a nice guy with hair longer and better-cared than half the girls in their school. He is also a proud member of her sister Team Juniper, JNIR. He does good enough at studies and equally well in tests, so he's very reliable and can write some good tidy notes for her to copy what she missed in Professor Oobleck's class.

Also, Ren can cook some amazing pancakes, it's so good that she even caught Weiss publicly drooling over the smell this one time in the dining hall. Apparently, he uses this secret sauce that is passed down by his family, but for some private reasons, he refuses to share it with them.

He doesn't talk much unless he needs to, much like Blake. He has the presence of a ninja. He dresses like a ninja. He _fights_ like a ninja. He _behaves_ like a ninja.

He also takes care of his team stealthily in the background like the ninja he is. The way he routinely washes his own team's clothes and smoothens their bedsheets every morning makes Ruby wonder why he's trying to become a huntsman-in-training than a certified nanny.

Basically, Ren is a bit of a blend between Blake and Wiess, but has a less haughty character than the heiress and more a conscientious attitude than their resident cat faunus.

They are enough of a reason for Ruby to like Ren. She has friends less likable back in Signal. And Yang always says that she needs to make some mature friend to balance out her viridity, whatever that means.

But still, friend or not, it doesn't change that Ren is the polar opposite of talkative. It is so hard to talk to him even when he's one of the nicest guys Ruby's ever met.

Whenever she talks to Ren… she can't help it! She often imagines herself talking to a brick wall than an actual person, words just bouncing off the wall and echoing back to herself. She can rant for hours and Ren will just stand there, nodding and providing bare minimum responses just enough to let her know that he is paying attention to her words.

Boy, it's downright frustrating! She swears the most facial expression she caught on Ren's face when their teams were chatting was merely a twitch on his lips, and even then she can't tell if he's trying to smile or frown.

While Ruby won't call Ren an impassive person, he's coming quite darn close. He's the very definition of unreadable. He seals up any outward expressions and his tone has always been even.

Here, even Blake admits that it's very difficult for her to get a read on Ren's mood through his poker face.

Sure enough, she's not alone in this. Yang probably feels the same way. Apart from being a hopeless pun maker, her sister is a master of teasing people with her…blessed parts. But recently, with how desperate she tries to get a rise from the boy with dirty teases but to get no more of a reaction than the raise of his eyebrows, Ruby figures her sister is nearing the point where she'll tear her fabulous hair out in exasperation.

Ruby won't pretend she understands Ren, because frankly, she does not. They are distant friends at best, acquaintances at worse. And from the handful of times they have interacted, she hardly scraps the surface of his personality, much less unraveling his being.

But if there's one thing Ruby is sure, it's that Ren is strong.

Like, crazy strong! She does not need to watch him train, just from observing the first three minutes of the spar, she has already deduced that much.

She doesn't know. Ren's fast, but not as fast as herself. He's flexible and acrobatic but cannot perform eye-bulging flips, unlike Blake. His kicks hurt, but when compared to Yang's rib-cracking ones, they aren't much. His aura level is above average and his control over it is nothing to scoff at.

He's not so much the best at anything than being decent at everything.

Ren's good, but not good enough to raise some eyebrows.

There are no glaring weaknesses he has, but that's about it all.

There's nothing really outstanding about him. There's nothing particularly extraordinary about Ren. And there's nothing especially iconic about him.

But regardless, Ruby still can feel it, an air that trails after her only male friend wherever he goes like a phantom.

It hovers and wisps around his body like a cloud of dense, _domineering_ mist, draped over his shoulders like the proud cape of a paladin.

The presence of someone strong.

It is really strange. People often point out his mundaneness and questions the validity of him claiming top spot despite not havinc shown anything significant in his matches, but Ruby wholeheartedly disagrees.

Ren gives her chills. He is the only one that gives her this impression of unwavering calmness out of all the first-year students she has come in contact with.

The first-years she has met are attention hogs. All they do is list out their skills and expertise, mention their achievements and comment how big of a deal they are, as though it would help them prove their worth.

But no, it does the exact opposite.

But Ren? He does not boast or brag, simply because he does not have the need to.

Just by standing next to him, she can feel his swelling presence overflowing in the air. He has this inexplicable aura of quiet confidence, a form of strength that is spoken louder through actions than words. A type of silent charisma that makes people feel a sense of reassurance.

It is subtle, so people who don't pay attention to her male friend will miss it for sure.

But even so, they should be convinced of Ren's standing in their year should they take a look at his combat records. They are fine testimonies to his proficiency.

Yes, it is exactly as ridiculous as it sounds, as unbelievable as it seems.

Even if Ren's weapons are average, his base abilities average, showing no flashy moves nor semblance in his matches.

...He's never lost a fight, ever.

That's an amazing feat in itself!

Sure, some may argue he's never been paired against the likes of Pyrrha or Weiss.

And yes, some other may state that his battles against other students lasted for dozens of minutes while Ruby's end in only a couple seconds.

But still, in these three long, _competitive_ months, Ren has never lost a single battle.

Every time Professor Goodwitch calls out Ren's name, she can practically see the stern professor declaring him the winner at the same time. It's like the battle is won before it even started. And Ruby won't lie, in so some way, that's kinda awesome.

Though this time, it'll be different. He's fighting Yang after all!

There must be an extent to Ren's coolness.

The harsh collision between metal and metal brings Ruby back into the match, her eardrums ring clamourously as the continuous chain of clashing weapons make their way into her ears.

Ruby shakes her head and slaps her own face to clear her inner thoughts.

Oh, she didn't miss anything, did she? Weiss' not gonna let her hear the end of it if she finds her spacing out in the middle of a lesson.

One look towards the arena tells her the general state of the ongoing spar.

As of now, it looks pretty equal. While Ren's aura is current seven percent lower than Yang's, both their aura levels are still well above yellow.

But it won't last long, because from what it appears, the pace of the match is _still_ escalating.

Down below, her sister clearly has the upper ground, putting forth punches with the intensity of a blazing inferno. Her fists flicking out and back thirteen times under the frame of six seconds, and still it does not feel like Yang is at her limit yet. Together assisted by the firing mechanics of Ember Celica, the power behind her punches are no joke.

On the other hand, Ren is trying his best to weave through the onslaught but is losing ground steadily. His arms blur green as he bats away Yang's raining blow. Stormflower buckles under the weight of her every punch, nearly tearing the pistols away from his vise grip.

Despite his best effort, Ren is steadily backed up against the edge of the arena lest to receive a splintered arm.

"Who da you think's gonna win?" Ruby whispers to her partner, who is watching the match with an analytical eye.

Wiess, the smarter one between them two, spars a glance at Ruby before returning to the arena with an appraising look.

"Yang, that is without a doubt," she says with an air of certainty, "unless Ren can put some distance between them to utilize the advantage of his greater weapon range, he may be able to turn the tides. But even Yang's not stupid enough to let him go when she's this up close."

"Oh, yeah," Ruby nods slowly at Wiess' words, she's the smarter between them two after all. "You're probably right..."

"Probably?" Weiss sounds offended.

There is a sharp ring of metal, and Ren's right pistol is wrenched away from his hand by a spin kick from Yang. Ren jerks, the sudden attack robbing him of his balance briefly.

An opening Yang exploits without delay.

"Ha! Your winning streak's over now, champ!" His sister gleefully yelps, carelessly throwing her self-control to the wind as concentrated aura kissing her fist. It glows golden she sends it forward in a violent punch.

The crowd prepares for the inevitable harsh sound of metal against flesh, courtesy of Yang's viciousness.

Weiss is positively horrified and even the normally stoic Blake grimaced.

Their professor looks tense, her grip on her crop tightens but makes no action to call off the match.

Sadly, it seems that Ren is on his own.

"Ah yikes," whispers Ruby under her breath, already feeling bad for Ren's poor face.

She'll make sure to visit him in the medical bay later today and reminds herself to bring him some of her own strawberry cookies as an apology.

At least then she'll feel better about herself.

* * *

 _ **Acceleration**_

* * *

He watches as the fist closes in in an intimidating fashion.

But the shroud of calmness does not flicker. The air of absolute victory remains resolute.

A foot stomps on the arena floor and the green-clad boy recovers his footing in the blink of an eye.

And subtly, unnoticed by anyone, Lie Ren's eyes glints. Magenta eyes burn with a ferocity that belies the serene impression the owner of said eyes gives to his fellow classmates.

"Ren!" Joan Arc cries warningly, visibly distressed and worried. But even then, Ren does not move from his position.

Though, he thanks her for the concern.

The glowing gauntlet of unyielding steel zooms in on his defenseless face, parting his silky black hair and reveals a pair of calculative eyes to the open world.

And then, alas, it connected.

There is the unmistakable dull smack when Yang's gauntlet crashes into Ren's cheek. Many people winced, Ruby being one of them as they watch Ren's head snap to the side, a trail of saliva suspended in the air.

 _Now._

But that's all they will be discern then. No one is quite able to see what happened in the next split second.

A twirl of movement, the shrilling screeching sound shoe soles grinding against the arena floor, and a _colossal_ thump that utterly drowns out every sympathetic 'ohh's and 'ow's in the training hall.

It sounds cliché, but for a moment, the world holds still.

A wet cough shatters the silence like a hammer to the window.

"Oh my." Someone from the stand said, and Ren has to hold back a snort.

Down the arena, Yang wheezes and wobbles unsteadily as he calmly removes his fist from her solar plexus and steps back. The blonde gasps out unintelligible words as she stumbles to a knee.

Her head is bowed from pain, her thick layer of hair covers the majority of her face, but it is unable to conceal her ashen face nor the sheer disbelief written on it.

The crowd is a mass of hushed whispers. Ren cannot blame them for their shock.

A single punch, that's all it took for Lie Ren to put Yang Xiao-Long out of commission.

Or to put it in more detail; with the aid of keen eyes, dead-on precision, and incredible explosive force, Ren has placed a well-placed uppercut to her gut that shattered a thick armor of aura and effectively knocked Yang, a literal tank that can take as much as she dishes, out of the fight.

Someone stands up enthusiastically from the watching audience.

"I don't know what the hell just happened…" says a certain, loud blonde amid of silence. "But that's awesome!"

Ren ignores his teammate as easy as he does the nasty bruise growing on his right cheek. Instead, he focuses his attention on his fallen opponent.

The sheer degree of shock on Yang's face is enough to make Ren's lips twitch, mostly out of amusement. But again, he resists the urge, for it is considered a highly disrespectful gesture to his adversary.

He takes a glimpse at her aura meter and notes that she still has a good proportion of aura left in her body to stay in the fight. So wasting no time, Ren reaches out and grabs Yang's arm. With nimbleness that belongs only to professionals, Ren easily performs a textbook judo throw and tosses the vulnerable blonde over his shoulders and out the arena.

Yang slides out the ring and remains prone on the floor, looking nothing like the proud and smug woman she was just ten minutes earlier.

Of all the people spectating the fight, only Glynda Goodwitch is unfazed by the outcome of the battle. Glasses gleams as she regards Lie Ren in a new light. and from the way she smiles, Ren can guess that she is pleasantly surprised by his unorthodox manner of handling the fight.

That is good.

Professor Goodwitch clears her throat and silenced the mass of students. She taps on her scroll a few times before she announces in a loud, clear voice.

"Winner by ring out, Lie Ren!"

Ren's team, with the exception of the winner himself, cheers loudly.

And up the stands, next to her two frozen teammates, Ruby Rose puffs out her cheek as she lazily slumps in her seat.

"Uwah…I can't believe it," she mumbles slowly. "Yang actually lost."

* * *

 _ **Acceleration**_

* * *

Contrary to her fellow classmates, as much as she sympathizes with Ren's much-undesired position, Blake did not turn and look away from that crucial instant when it determined the outcome of the spar.

Instead, she tries to understand it.

It is her nature to analyze everything that will be useful to her in the future. A huntress can never have too little at her deposit, right?

Every day, she pays close attention to Goodwitch's class, picking up every detail she deems practical and useful. Listening to specified dos and don'ts, absorbing bits of advice offered by their professor and memorizing assorted moves of her classmates, so she can add them all into her ever-growing arsenal and take several steps closer to her goal.

Which, in her case, is putting an end to White Fang's aggression and revoke human's negative views on the faunus race.

Her classmates might not appreciate her stealing their personal techniques, but it is the most effective and efficient method to refine her style that she can think of. Adam will surely approve.

And hence, the moment she saw Yang and Ren's name pop up on the screen, Blake thought it would be a perfect opportunity to learn a thing or two from Yang's spinning kicks; she never seems to understand how Yang gets her legs and waist to work cohesively to add extra force in the kick.

Sure, she may be able to get Yang to teach her herself if she asks nicely, but she doubts her sanity will survive with Yang's lewd jokes about hips and waist and _correct positioning_ accompanying her all the way through the session.

It is a risk she will not take.

Before the match began, she had intended to learn a thing or two from the spar between her partner and the only male friend of her leader...

But instead, she got something else out of it. It was staggering and has unreservedly blown Blake's expectations out of the water.

Even with the superior eyesight of a cat faunus, it has been blurry, the movement has been so quick that she swore it left afterimages. Furthermore, most of the maneuver had been substantially obscured by Ren's curtain-like hair, she was just able to catch a glimpse of what happened.

It began obvious enough, everyone saw when Yang threw out a punch that could dent steel walls. No one doubted that the aura-enhanced fist would not reach its intended location given how it sliced through the air with the speed of a bullet.

And just like everyone else, Blake had thought the powerful punch would be what Yang needed to knock Ren out of the fight, potentially punching his lights out as well considering Yang's infamous reputation of her lack of restraints.

Except, it did not.

Instead, he executed a maneuver with so much smoothness, so much _swiftness_ , that Blake wonders if her eyes were deceiving her.

Earlier, Weiss had recorded the entire fight with her scroll like she always does with all matches her teammates take part in. Straight after the bell rang, Blake had cornered the Schnee and asked a copy of the video she had recorded, which Weiss had mutely complied with only a raised eyebrow at her strange behavior.

So here she is now, alone in the dorm room with the other three members of her team gone to do whatever they are doing.

Well-earned privacy at long last. She so deserves it.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, Blake takes out her scroll from under her pillow. The screen blinks to life and she opens the file that contains the video of Yang's and Ren's match.

Colors flash on the transparent surface of her scroll as Blake plays the fight in slow motion, her eyes dilated from the focus she exerts on the movements.

Blake spends the next three minutes in silence. The only noise that can be heard is the soft ticking of Weiss' alarm clock.

The video ended, and Blake replays it once again. Only this time, she further slows of the video, watching it one-fourth its original speed.

Time passed, the room is quiet for six minutes this time around.

When the video ended the second time, Blake tosses her scroll aside and purses her lips in deep thought.

It appears she had underestimated Ren's ability, assuming he is an ordinary huntsman-in-training like the rest of them when in fact, he is not.

He carries qualities that others don't.

Yang's final punch had connected. Oh, it did connect, resoundingly too if she may add. The metal gauntlet has smashed into Ren's face, his cheek rippled like water as the force of the blow snapped Ren's head to the side.

But he did not go down.

It was lightning-fast reflex that allowed Ren to tilt his head in the last second, enough to soften Yang's tremendous blow from depleting his aura capacity to red; the benefits of spectacular body coordination that enabled him to keep himself up straight even as he was helpless flung to the side from the outrageous force of her teammate's jab.

It was the credit of well-drilled muscle memory that permitted him to transform a formless flail to an impeccable spin through the works of brilliant footwork; the perfect awareness of his own mass that let him convert a great deal of the punch's weight into the momentum of his swirl.

It was the immense aptitude as an exceptional fighter that allowed him to transfer all the built-up momentum into his fist and into Yang's abdomen, a devastating punch that was all it took to put down the blonde juggernaut.

It was astounding. He did not flinch from the like anyone would have, he did not let the blow disorient him when it should. He didn't even _blink_. Alternatively, he took the hit face fault, just like how he took the weight behind the punch and added it to his own.

His high tolerance towards pain. His extremely quick reaction to sudden threat and almost automatic counteraction to said threat. His cool and poised composure during battles. His nonchalant negligence towards wounds and injuries.

They are attributes that Blake concluded no amount of training can yield.

He had _improvised_ , not with his mind but his body. For in that instance, the latter had moved nanoseconds before the former does.

It has become clear. It had been nothing but pure experience that allowed Ren to pull that move off.

She was White Fang before she was a huntress, the terrorist group that attacks both human and faunus citizens in plain sight. And in those years being a part of it, she had seen grunts without prior combat training fight and spar barehanded, building up their own set of style by directly battling each other.

She personally supervised them herself, so naturally, she could recognize the similarity in Ren's maneuver against Yang when she saw it.

It was given shape through actual combat than routine training.

After engaged in brawls and street fights numerous times, after being struck in different areas countless times, bones being broken and flesh being torn, you ought to develop some sort of auto-counter mechanism that will help you soften hits and turn them to your advantages.

Formless stances with the fluidity of flowing water, allowing the person to dissolve fatal attacks and minimize lethal harm with the slightest shifts with their body.

She knows this because White Fang grunts had been perfect punching bags to Adam. Too often the bull faunus has taken over their training, giving Blake enough chances to familiarize herself with the manner grunts roll with Adam's blows to avoid suffering injuries, the way they spin with punches to add strength to their own attacks.

It makes Blake wonder: how many times had Ren been hit, how hard had he been struck, how many times had he been beat into a pulp, for him to take a full-strength, aura-enhanced punch from Yang no less and stay standing, cool as a cucumber, as though it is nothing more than a glancing blow?

Was it intentional? Did he take the punch head on intentionally? Honestly, with what she has seen, she thinks it might be possible.

Which also leads to her next question: Why would Ren pull off such a barbaric, absurd move that is unfit for a huntsman against Yang?

What kind of huntsman would allow himself to be hit just so to deal a deadlier blow to take out a single grimm?

Unless...Ren has a masochistic semblance like Yang.

Or maybe...

She's just saying, maybe...

He's just a plain masochist.

Hmm... so many questions that she has yet had an answer to.

"Intriguing…" Blake mutters lowly, rubbing her chin with a free hand.

Ten minutes later, when Yang Xiao-Long returns, only to see Blake Belladonna head-deep in her unfinished volume of Ninjas in Love, cheeks a light tone of pink as she indulges herself in a world of wild and erotic imaginations.

* * *

 _ **Acceleration**_

* * *

 **AN: Ren is a bit stronger here than the version in Rooster Teeth. You'll see why. ;)**

 **AN (The next day the story is posted) : So, um, apparently someone in the reviews mentions the sentence '** _Which also leads to her next question: Why would Ren pull off such a barbaric, absurd move that is unfit for a huntsman against Yang? **'**_ **and pointed out the irony about Yang doing the exact same thing.**

 **It took me ten seconds to realize where the irony is, becuz... you know, brain lag.**

 **To be fair, I just woke up. But it got a very loud laugh out of me, so that's that. Thanks for pointing that out!**

 **Anyways, thanks to him, or her, I was able to come up with something from my sleep-deprived brain, so I added in the joke at the end so that the chapter finishes on a somewhat smoother and funnier note.**

 **Well, it is kinda funny in my opinion.**

 **Next update: I have no idea**


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